


The Joy of Losing a Wager

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cats, Christmas, M/M, anthea takes no guff from her boss, neither does her cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 06:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Mycroft should know better than to make a wager with Anthea, but, this time, his foolishness may actually reap him a delectable reward...





	The Joy of Losing a Wager

      “Absolutely not.”

      “Absolutely yes.”

      “I shall not comply.  Not under any circumstances.  Not for _any_ reason.”

      ‘You will and… well, I was going to say ‘and you’ll like it’ but that’s going too far even for me.”

Mycroft glared at his PA and used his mightiest mental chisel to inscribe into his diamond-hard intellect NEVER again to enter into a wager with the infernal woman, no matter how clearly he saw his inevitable victory beckoning in the foreground.  It was, apparently, within her oft-whispered-in-the-shadows-of-government mystical powers to cheat so successfully and effortlessly that not even his unparalled intellect and instincts could notice.  Or emerge victorious.

      “I should not be forced to endure this degradation.  You were scurrilously deceitful.”

      “You said my heels were too high.  You said I could not conduct my duties with, as you put it, my harlot shoes.  You wagered I couldn’t make it up the steps to the conference in my shoes.  I did.”

      “You replaced the heels!  You had extra heels for your devilish shoes in your handbag!”

      “It’s your own fault you didn’t know you can buy shoes with interchangeable heels.  AND it’s your own fault that you actually questioned my judgement.  And fashion sense.  Especially the latter.  I look good and you can’t handle it.”

      “Ridiculous.”

      “Your envy makes you an ugly person, sir.  Think about that while you pay me my spoils of war.”

      “Speaking of pay…”

      “Nope.  No cheque you can write is better than this.  Though make certain when you _do_ pay for my victory, you put in a little extra, because you need to do something to cleanse your bitter, envious soul.  And bring back dinner, too.”

      “I’m in agony.”

      “Then I’ll eat your portion.  Hate to see it go to waste and I’m famished from running up all those stairs in my beautiful shoes.”

__________

The seas boiled and the skies fell… and it would not, in the slightest, be more horrifying than this…

      “Yes, sir.  Oh, what a beauty you have!  Name?”

      “Its name…”

      “Its?”

The locusts devoured the wheat and famine reigned for generations.  Still better than this.

      “ _Her_ name is… Fantasia Regina Ebony Incandesia… Flooferbottom.”

      “She’s certainly a floofy cat, that’s for certain!  And black as midnight… was it the wife or kids who named her?”

A demon from the foulest, deepest pits of hell.  Wearing inappropriate shoes.

      “A semblance of the former.”

      “Semblance?  Oh, the girlfriend.  Smart man showing attention to the cat if you want attention from the girlfriend.  Well, this is a grand way to do it and all the proceeds go towards helping animals in need.”

      “Delightful.”

      “That it is!  Our Pet Portraits with Father Christmas is a cracking fundraiser and a lot of good is done with the money we earn.  Well, here’s your card to hand to the photographer and the queue’s not so bad right now, so it shouldn’t be too long of a wait.  We’ve got tea and biscuits for sale, though, if you fancy a nibble.  Little treats bags for the pets, too, so they can have their own bit of holiday cheer.”

Mycroft took his queue number and debated asking if the tea was plentifully-provided with poison, but decided that would only prolong his conversation with the perky young woman dressed as an elf.  Which could _not_ occur, or he would surely commit murder and it would be impossible to fulfill his lost wager while languishing in prison for the remainder of his days.  Something Anthea would make eternally more miserable since she did not gain her much-coveted spoils.  A photograph of her feline with Father Christmas for her mantle.  If this was not proof of her unfitness for her job, along with harlot shoes, then he mourned the depths to which the standards for government employees had fallen.

Purchasing a non-poisoned cup of tea and a bag of treats for the evil feline currently shedding an overcoat’s worth of fur on his actual overcoat, Mycroft tried to sink into his mind and erase his perception of the gaudily-decorated Christmas landscape and the plethora of pets and their owners who were clearly mentally-addled, for they were enjoying this nonsense to a skin-crawling degree.  When his number was called, Mycroft had fallen into a blissful reverie where he was in the British Library, perusing their collection of fragrant, leather-bound tomes and being ripped from that further soured his already persimmony mood.

Handing his card to the photographer, also dressed as elf, which made Mycroft’s small, agonize whine fully understandable… at least, to Mycroft… the British Government walked the few remaining steps to the costumed Father Christmas seated midst the explosion of fake snow, empty wrapped boxes and other traitorous trappings of Christmas that had Mycroft wondering what it would take to script and pass legislation making all such eye-watering lunacy execution-worthy offenses.

      “Look at that beauty!  And… oh.  Hello, sir.”

Since dropping his temporary charge would likely result in either (a) the cat mauling him to death or (b) the catting running off and his PA mauling him to death, Mycroft held fast to the hellbeast and stared through the fake beard and costume to the man beneath.  Who had the most beguiling brown eyes in creation.

      “Detective Inspector Lestrade… hello to you, as well.”

      “Here, let me take that lovely cat from you and… I didn’t know you had a cat, actually, but it certainly suits you.”

      “I… it does?”

      “Look how regal... he?  She?...”

      “She.”

      “Look how regal she is.  Queen of the Cats and knows it.”

      “And th…that suits me, does it?”

      “Certainly!  King of All He Surveys!  And more besides!’

      “Detective Inspector… are you quite alright?”

Because you are rarely so ingratiating and garrulous when we meet, though I have greatly wished for such thing, since my own capacity for such is less than naught.

      “I’m more than alright.  It’s Christmas!  And I get to do my good deed of helping the poor animals who don’t have a loving Dad like you to take care of them.”

      “Fantasia is _not_ my cat.  She is my PA’s spawn of satan.”

      “Oh!  Oh, well then… she’s the loveliest cat in hell!  Aren’t you, you floofy baby?”

While Greg rubbed his face in Fantasia’s voluminous fur, Mycroft made a quick check of his grasp on reality because it seemed very much as if he had fallen through the proverbial rabbit hole and landed in a wintery version of Wonderland.

      “And she’s a sweet girl, too.  Aren’t you, Fantasia?  Yes, you are!  Did she get some treats?  The volunteers bake the little pet biscuits themselves and they’re not only scrummy for the dogs and cats, but nutritious, too.”

      “Detective Inspector…”

      “Greg.  We’ve known each other for years, so call me Greg.”

Wonderland was a confusing, unsettling, Christmas-carol chaos of nonsense, but some aspects of it were certainly working to Mycroft’s advantage.  The Detective Inspector was proposing familiarity!  What an unprecedented, and daydream-inspiring, turn of events!  However strange this turn of events was, in point of fact.

      “I… I would be honored.  And I would return the request and ask you call me Mycroft.”

      “I’d love to!  Not on the job, though, because you have to be formal and professional and the like for that, but when we’re just having a chat or a pint, Mycroft it’ll be.”

Ah.  Perchance…

      “And might, perchance, you have already gifted yourself a hearty pint, Det… Gregory?”

Your giggle, Gregory, will be part of the next collection of recordings sent into space to inform other sentient beings about the beauty and wonder of our little planet.

      ‘More than ‘a’ hearty pint, actually.  The charity does this twice a season and I was scheduled for the second go, but… you know the awful flu that’s going around?  Well, the Father Christmas for tonight was vomiting up his Christmasy cheer and they phoned through the volunteer list to find someone who didn’t have their head in the toilet or had the night free.  I was in my local watching the match and had had a few… but that only makes me cheerier!  Anything for these little dears… I just love them.  Even the snakes!  Already had one snap with a beautiful boa and it was one of the best so far tonight!”

Mycroft just knew that if _he_ nuzzled the demon cat on its nose with his nose, as Gregory was doing, he would forever after be nose-less, but the stygian feline apparently had a fondness for tipsy pet lovers with pert, adorable noses, fingers and strongly-seductive tones threading through their endearing banter.

      “I am delighted your naturally-affable demeanor has only been enhanced by your tippling, and that the animals appreciate the additional good cheer.”

      “Oh, they do, they really do.  Ooh, but we should probably get your portrait done we don’t hold up the queue for too long.  Anything special you’d like?  A certain pose or prop?”

      “For a cat portrait?”

      “You’d be surprised what I get asked to do.”

      “Knowing humanity as I do, no, I would not.  I suggest whatever is most comfortable for you and your model.”

      “Ok.  What do you want, pretty girl?”

Mycroft felt no surprise that Fantasia crawled up from Greg’s arms to perch like the angel of death on the Detective Inspector’s shoulders.

      “Perfect!  Sarah, hurry and get this!”

Hopping out of the frame, Mycroft waited for the portrait to be taken, checked for problems and the thumb’s up given to approach and take possession of the cat who gave him a look as if he was a bad smell.

      “They’ll print that up for you and have it ready in a few minutes.  You… um… you on your way home after this?”

      “No, I have several matters of work to tend to and, thankfully, return Fantasia to the harpy who owns her.”

      “Good!”

      “Really?”

      “Yeah, because I’m here until the shop closes tonight, so I won’t be taking you away from your comfortable shoes and telly when we step out for a drink later.”

      “I… um… we… what… did… you… me… whhhh…”

The last wasn’t precisely a word, but more a long exhale of perplexation since Mycroft’s brain had gone fully offline.

      “I’ll phone you when I’m done here and we can sort out the details.”

      “Zhhhhhh…”

That was, also, not a word, but Mycroft’s brain going through the laborious process of coming back online and racing to process the information helpfully held in memory while he suffered his mental blue screen of death.  It was only Fantasia’s snort of contempt for his lack of fortitude that fully brought his processor screaming back to life.

      “I… look most forward to it.”

Smiling broadly through his white moustache and beard, Greg gave Mycroft an enthusiastic wave as the tall, cat-carrying man slowly edged away from the scene of his break from reality.  As soon as Mycroft was gone, Greg let out his own long exhale and forced back the terrified shriek that was burbling up in his throat.

What was wrong with his brain!  It had gone completely offline when he saw Mycroft step into the pet shop, then the fucking thing lights back up and decides it would be loads of fun to play drunk so he could actually _talk_ to the elegant, gorgeous Mycroft Holmes, but to ask the man out?  Talking was one thing, which, admittedly, he couldn’t bring himself to do before with the alluring and mysterious Mycroft Holmes but… now he’d committed himself to… more talking!  Lots of talking.  Talking about… things.  What things could he even talk about with a man like that?  Every time Mycroft presented his luscious self at a crime scene or at his office to collect his bastardy baby brother, it was reach in, grab tongue, tie it in a knot and let it sit there muddling everything besides basic facts and polite hellos into a garbled gaggle of garbage.  Even his description of the garble didn’t make any sense!

And, now he had to phone, make plans, talk, drink… maybe laugh.  Mycroft probably had a lovely laugh.  His voice was amazing, so it stood to reason his laugh would be, too.  And when you laugh with a person, there’s no reason other things can’t happen, too.  Like kissing.  Not that it _had_ to follow laughing, but you should be able to laugh with the person you kiss, shouldn’t you?  Or shag.  Definitely should be able to laugh with he person you’re shagging.  Not that he was thinking about that.  Much.  Or seriously.  Certainly not as much or seriously as he _would_ have… and _had_ … before he asked out the man he’d had his share of filthy fantasies about, but, now, there was as-much’s and seriousness flying all over like Santa’s fucking reindeer!

But… if he cared to look at matters one way… this was a chance he never thought he’d get.  One cracking of the door to stick in a foot and maybe get the rest of him through, in time.  Alright, maybe his brain wasn’t so stupid after all.  Of course, it wasn’t the one that had to sit there and try to be an intelligent, interesting person that Mycroft would want to see again and not have tossed into the Thames with a boulder tied around his feet.

Of course, it _also_ wasn’t the one who would get to feel Mycroft’s naked body sliding against theirs if the intelligent, interesting and seeing again parts went very, very well and led to some of those filthy fantasies that made slow days at work a great deal more pleasant.  Well, one couldn’t have anything.  Unless, that is, one was Greg Lestrade and the everything was a Christmas gift that made all others pale by comparison.  Then, one could not only have everything, but like it, too…


End file.
